“Perhaps if I tell my story,” said Bakche appealing to the inspector, “you may be convinced of the truth.”
“Go on,” said Moon curtly, and took out his pocket-book.
“She killed him——”
“I never did, I never did,” wept Miss Grison, “you did it yourself.”
“I did it! How dare you say that!”
“Because it is true. You admit having been at Rotherhithe on the night and about the time poor Baldwin was murdered. You wanted the peacock, you know you did, and told me so. When I said Baldwin had it——”
“I went to try and get it from him,” finished Bakche, “that is quite correct, madam. I did, and I tried hard to get him to part with it. But he refused and you urged him not to give it to me, even for money. When you visited your brother——”
“I never visited him,” snapped Miss Grison, whose strength was coming back, and whose eyes were again beginning to flash ominously.
“You did,” retorted the Indian, “you went frequently, I disguised myself as a lascar and followed you. I overheard your conversations with him many a time, madam.”
“Ah!” she flashed out, “you were eavesdropping.”